


through wire and fog and dog—bark

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, POV First Person, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 19:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: A stranger appears in the trenches and it's entirely the stranger you would expect.





	through wire and fog and dog—bark

There was strange man at the entrance of our dugout, casting a long shadow across the chessboard Moore and I had been pondering over. Annoyed at the interruption, I said, “Are you the replacement? I hope you last longer than the other one did.” 

Moore kicked my shins, but I ignored him. The stranger had the manner of an officer about him -- or at least, he seemed the kind who expected to be listened to when he spoke, but his uniform was strange, as if he had picked most of it up from the clothes of dead men.

“Pardon my intrusion, I’m looking for something,” he said softly, with an accent I could not quite place. Was it Irish? Finnish? Certainly not German, but something about him seemed foreign. I nudged Moore’s foot, hoping he was seeing what I was seeing. 

“What are you looking for, sir?” Moore said. He’d always been more polite than I, even before two years in the mud had stolen each and every one of my social graces. 

“A seedling,” he said and smiled, as if he knew exactly how mad he sounded. I sighed. We weren’t very far from the medical tent, but it was rare that the inmates would make their way back to the trenches, some misplaced feeling of valor or obligation surviving the terror and darkness of their minds. 

It seemed that Moore and I would have to bring him back. 

It was a pity -- I’d been winning that chess game. 

“Harper,” Moore said sharply and I looked to see that the stranger was gone. We went out of the dugout to find him, asking if anyone else had seen him. Someone had, and said the stranger had been heading for the 11th Lancashire Fusiliers. Apparently he was looking for their signals officer. 

I tried to rekindle interest in the game, but Moore wasn’t having it. He muttered something about ghosts and bad luck, but I laughed him off. What harm could ghosts do when the living were doing their best to kill us?

But still, I wonder now what seedling the stranger was trying to plant. It bothers me to think that he did not mean a plant or seed, but an idea. What kind of idea would it be, to grow on such soil as this?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the SWG November 18th Instadrabbling Event, but once again I am miserably unable to keep things short. For Himring's prompt of seedling, rekindle, shadow, last. 
> 
> Title from Charles Bukowski, who is usually not my bag, but somehow I've always wanted to use that line as a title for a Maglor-in-the-trenches story, and now I have.


End file.
